


Mr. Coulson's Technicolor Dreamhouse

by Not_You



Series: Dreamhouse [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Puppets, Recreational Drug Use, Surreal, mild daddykink, past imprisonment, quality children's television, weird au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 13,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on Avengerkink, and posted there as 'Edutainment.'</p><p>Phil is Mr. Coulson, beloved children's entertainer and purveyor of quality television for humans.  Clint is the new cameraman, and this is the tale of their love.  And of Steve and Bucky's, and other people's as they appear.  Coulson is afraid he's too boring and Clint that he's not classy enough.  They are both wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Phil doesn't wear sneakers or a sweater vest in a friendly pattern. His uniform is a dark grey three-piece suit, complete with neatly knotted tie. Everything about him is upright and correct and monochrome. The look is as carefully arrived at as everything else about the show, the perfect clothing for Mr. Coulson, cosmic straight man in a world of unparalleled absurdity. In addition to the children it's intended for, 'Mr. Coulson's Technicolor Dreamhouse' has a significant fan base on college campuses across the nation. The word 'surreal' comes up in any in-depth critique of the show, with its excursions to the Negative Zone and Fairytale Land and the definitely steampunk Republic of Undersea. The various puppets are exquisitely crafted and wonderfully strange, given life and voice by a tight-knit and talented team, and the content is eclectic, tending toward the educational and the bizarre.

Today Phil is in the Negative Zone, comforting Fuzzy the Friendly Spider. Fuzzy is quite understandably upset by how much fear and hatred he and his brethren can inspire, when they perform vital pest control services and don't generally hurt anyone. In the interests of truth he has to admit that they bite when scared, but that everybody gets scared sometimes and it's instinctive to defend yourself. Natasha is stretched out flat on her belly, face an expressionless mask of concentration as she controls all eight legs. Steve is providing the voice and remotely controlling the eyes, crouched just out of sight. The Negative Zone bits are easy to shoot, just the simple backdrop of black sky and white ground, Phil looking like a part of it, his eyes and the spider's red synthetic fur a shock of color. 

They get most of the bit before Fuzzy's eyes glitch up again. The remote has one of the most insistent cases of the gremlins Phil has ever seen, and he sighs. " Cut!"

"Cut, boss."

Phil blinks, because that's not Joe's voice. "Uh, good. Have we met?"

He chuckles, back there behind the lights and invisible. "I've been up here all day, Mr. Coulson."

"I thought someone told you we'd found a replacement." Steve stands and stretches as Natasha gracefully peels herself off the floor.

"Maybe it was pre-coffee," Phil murmurs, rolling his neck. "Might as well break for lunch," he calls up to the voice in the rigging, "it'll take Tony at least half an hour to get the remote fixed."

"Aye-aye, cap'n." There's an insolent lilt to the voice that Phil decides he likes, and the sheer animal grace of the man as he swings down from his perch can only mean trouble. When he manages to tear his gaze away, Natasha is smirking at him. He blushes to be so transparent, and leaps up and flees to the green room. Since they're not shooting anything with actual children in it today, there's nothing in the green room but snacks. Water and peanut M&Ms secured, he does his best to fade into a corner as some of the others file in. Steve is in the workshop putting up with it as Tony swears and throws things again because there is no goddamn physical reason for that remote to break as often as it does. Natasha sometimes goes to offer moral support, but today she's talking to their new cameraman, who is… well. Phil isn't given to instant lust, but this guy just brings it out in him. He's the kind of guy Phil went for in his younger days, before he wised up and realized that while bad boys make better lovers it's not worth the trouble. Not that he needs to worry about this one. He's not gonna look twice at a little old man like Phil even if he is gay, and that's just fine.

"Actually, I'm a huge fan from way back," he's telling Natasha, showing a broken tooth in his smile. "I watched this show when it was still on public access."

"That has been a while." She grins. "Who's your favorite puppet?"

"…Well, my very favorite was Angry Sock—" He grins to be interrupted by Phil's laughter.

"I'll have to tell Nick that someone remembers his performance." He holds out a hand. "Phil Coulson. Obviously." He feels like an idiot, but his new crewmember just grins from ear to ear and shakes his hand.

"Clint Barton. Real happy to be here."


	2. Chapter 2

The name 'Mr. Coulson's Technicolor Dreamhouse' is the only haphazard thing about the show, and it had not actually been Phil's idea. There had been forms, and no title for the show, and Nick had been sick of his fucking around and had just filled in that last precious blank. Phil had objected on the grounds of it being too psychedelic.

"Too psychedelic?!" Nick had screamed, "For fuck's sake, your main cast includes Fuzzy the Friendly Spider, Senator Octopus, Bill the Mostly Invisible Bird, and Princess Tiye! Come up with something better in the next five minutes or shut up!"

Phil had shut up. They had been awake far too long, and still had to drive to the relevant office to file the damn things. They had always been sleep-deprived in those days, but it had been worth it. The Angry Sock bits had of course been a product of this time. Before Tony came aboard, things had broken down a lot more often, and the first time it had really been impossible to jury rig _anything_ by deadline, Nick had said, 'fuck it' and taken one of Coulson's spare socks (he has kept a spare of his Mr. Coulson uniform at the studio almost since the beginning) and glued on red button eyes and angry red felt eyebrows. In later appearances, Angry Sock acquired a fabulous raveled yarn 'fro to match his creator's. 

Angry Sock's role was to get justifiably angry about the world's bullshit, only to be empathetically talked down by Mr. Coulson and directed into actual action, such as writing to his congressperson and starting petitions. When Nick hadn't had time to help out with the show anymore, Angry Sock had actually packed up a little suitcase with a black panther on it and thanked Mr. Coulson for all his help. It had been a useful episode on the difficulties of saying goodbye to friends and all the ways to keep in touch with them. Phil had really needed the reminder, with one of his oldest friends going off for extra training to take a higher military job.

God, they had been so young then. Phil runs a rueful hand over his balding scalp, remembering the ponytail he had had at the time. He's waiting for Clint to adjust that damn sidelight that always slides out of place, Fuzzy's eyes back in order. Tony is standing in the wings with a cup of black coffee in his hand and murder in his eyes, silently daring poor little Steve to even breathe on it too hard. Steve is good at ignoring him, though, and is doing so now.

"That look right from the ground?" Clint calls, and Natasha gives him the A-OK. She's almost an elective mute, the way she doesn't talk on set. It weirds a lot of people out, but Clint just gives a thumbs up in return and makes his way down from the scaffolding and over to the main bank of cameras. "Yeah, that's right. Okay, tech is go."

They manage to finish the whole bit before the remote gives out again. Tony screams like he's been stabbed, hurling his coffee into the trash and throwing his head back and his arms heavenward. "My God, my God! Why hast thou forsaken me?"

Phil rolls his eyes. "Anybody want to get Bruce to call Pepper?"

Steve raises a hand and goes off to the shop, where Bruce is lurking. Bruce never loses his temper, because when he does lose his temper it's more of a psychotic break. He takes pills, but still prefers to keep himself as quiet as possible with the exception of Tony, who is apparently such an irritant that he comes out the other side into soothing. Steve puts the situation to him and he emerges to put a grounding hand on Tony's shoulder.

"Tony. You've been awake too long. Pepper's taking a long lunch anyway; she'll come and get you."

"Talk to the remote while I'm gone, Bruce. Do that voodoo you do and make the fucker work. For me. For the Gipper and Baby Jesus and Fuzzy the Friendly Spider."

Bruce promises that he will, and shepherds him away.

"So. You get a lot of that?" Clint doesn't sound snide, just curious as he makes his way down to stage level via ladder, perfect arms flexing in the most distracting way possible. He hops down the last few feet, heavy and soft as a panther. Phil closes his eyes for just a moment, praying for strength.

"Tony is temperamental. It's a side-effect of his genius and of being spoiled rotten."

"And of staying up for thirty-six hours fiddling with circuits," Steve adds, rolling his eyes.

Phil sighs. "That, too. Oh well. Coffee and bathroom breaks all 'round?"

"Sounds good to me, boss." Clint just shrugs, and Steve laughs.

"Hell, I have to take more of my old man pills anyway."

They take fifteen, agreeing to come back and put together the Republic of Undersea bit.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve's old man pills are named thus because he has to take so many of them that he carries them in a little sectioned container labeled with the days of the week. He does it openly and pretty gracefully with a bottle of water, grimacing after one big, horsey extended-release capsule. Clint watches in mild horror, sipping sweet black coffee.

"Not to be a dick, but Jesus."

"I know, right?" He shrugs. "Ma was pretty frail too."

"Well, as long as it keeps you ticking without too many side effects."

"That's what my boyfriend says."

"Boyfriend, huh? This a welcoming workplace?"

Steve laughs. "It's Mr. Coulson's Technicolor Dreamhouse; I think the place would be struck by lightning if we were bigots."

Clint smiles, unexpectedly soft. "I kinda grew up on this show, y'know?"

"Wouldn't it have been after your time?"

"By 'grew up on' I mean 'watched while fourteen and stoned.'"

"Ah."

"It was kind of a rough-- helllooo, nurse!" The last is a reverent whisper as Pepper comes in like some kind of corporate wet dream.

Steve laughs, and waves to her. "That's Pepper. She's Tony's girlfriend."

"...And Bruce's friend with benefits?" Clint asks, as Pepper kisses Bruce on the mouth before taking Tony's arm.

"Pretty much."

Senator Octopus is the only thing short of flood, fire, or mad gunmen that will make Natasha speak on-set. She has to provide the voice, the only woman on the main crew. Pepper has come in for Fairytale Land spots along with sundry other guest voices, but Senator Octopus speaks in Natasha's soft, decisive tones. Many of the Undersea spots are about what's fair, and how Senator Octopus can make just laws that don't fuck anyone over. Natasha pilots the puppet as well as speaking, her dexterous fingers well-trained in managing eight limbs at once. 

Steve uses a second rig to provide full articulation to the tentacles, and Senator Octopus carefully hangs up her eggs, worrying about the time she must spend away from them for the good of the Republic. Bruce remote controls various fish, Steve voicing them into his collar mic, and in the end trustworthy care for the eggs is established and justice prevails. Phil sits in the wings and checks over future scripts. It's getting late, but they can probably get one more spot out of today.

"Steve, how are you holding up?" It's a question he has to ask, and everyone is used to it by now. Overworking Steve never leads to anything good.

"...I am pretty tired," he confesses, "but Bucky doesn't get off work for another hour and a half. I've got another spot in me, I think."

"Okay." Phil nods, and stretches, then brushes off his suit and makes sure everything is neat and straight. That done, he and Bill have a long discussion in the Negative Zone about not going anywhere with someone you don't know unless you absolutely have to, and then to approach a police officer or a woman with children of her own. Bill is always a little hoarse anyway, so at least Steve doesn't have to exert himself to avoid that. His work done, Steve wanders off to lie down on a couch in the green room, resting while they clean up.

"Wow," Clint says softly, "he's the little puppeteer that could."

"The heart of a lion in the body of a mouse," Phil agrees, tugging his tie loose and undoing his first two buttons. "He's got good meds and Bucky to look after him, we just have to keep him from working too hard and coming in sick."

"You're now part of the war effort, you understand," Bruce adds, carefully folding up Senator Octopus.

"I understand. You guys ever bring in food? I don't look like it, but I cook."

Phil sighs, as a hungry gleam comes into every eye in the room. "Now you've done it."


	4. Chapter 4

"You like him."

"Natasha..."

"I'm right."

"You are right, but it doesn't have any bearing on anything."

"Dammit, he brought us homemade chili and cornbread, pursue him."

"Is he even gay, All-Knowing One?"

They're sitting cross-legged on Natasha's floor, carefully repairing one of Princess Tiye's fabulous gowns. Phil isn't very good at sewing, but he can be trusted to attach sequins.

"So gay. He wears makeup to go out."

Phil does his best not to choke on his own saliva, with only moderate success. "What?"

"He also owns leather pants."

"...Now you're just making things up to torment me."

"Pierced nipples."

"Christ, stop it!" His face flames and he concentrates on his task harder than he needs to. "...How do you even know that?"

She shrugs. "Conversations have a way of working around to that."

"...Fuck, he tells me about his childhood pets and about how he's finally working his way through the canon of western literature."

"Well, yeah. Because you're Mr. Coulson."

He groans, setting his work down and flopping onto his back. "This is bad, Tasha. I don't even know him. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Dangerously long dry spell? Being only human and faced with sublime temptation? Your weakness for beautiful arms? All of the above?"

Phil groans. "Do we have any of that French silk pie left? I need to eat my feelings."

"Two pieces. Take one. Pig."

"Oink."

"I come from a place of love. And besides, if you're trying to eat your lust for that boy, you'll have to pace yourself."

"...Piercings? Seriously?"

"And tattoos. That's why he wears those weird arm-warmer things."

"Are you sure I can't eat both of these?"

"Slow and steady, Phil."

The worst part is having this information and interacting with wholesome work Clint, who hides his ink and obviously thinks that he's removed his eyeliner when he shows up all smudged and smoky and detrimental to Phil's sanity. He works so hard, and he's just so goddamn sweet. When one of the kids gets stage fright so bad he runs and hides, it's Clint who finds him and coaxes him out, quiet and inhumanly patient. The boy's tiny hand looks even smaller than it is in Clint's big callused one, and Clint beams down at him as he leads him back to the green room to have a snack and recuperate with one of the chaperones. When Phil commends him for it he just shrugs and stares down at his engineer boots, abashed.

"Praise from the fuckin' master," he says at last, little ears all safely out of the building.

Phil chuckles. "Thanks, Clint." He loosens everything and rolls his neck. "Bruce will be here a while yet, but I'm changing and getting out."

Clint nods. "Okay. I guess I can just give everything a last go-over and then go home."

"Yeah. ...Unless you want to get dinner."

"That'd be fine. Meet you outside?"

Phil nods, and tries not to have a heart attack, changing into old grey slacks and a black t-shirt. This is just going to be a friendly dinner with a coworker and a longtime fan, and he's stupid to get this sweaty-palmed about it. He grabs his jacket and almost expects Clint to have thought better of it and left, but of course he's there, loitering on the sidewalk and looking like a hustler. Phil swallows hard, and joins him.

"Uh, I came on my bike and I ain't got a second helmet, so..."

Phil can practically hear Natasha laughing at him. "I'll drive."

"Awesome." They walk to Phil's car in companionable silence, until Clint speaks again. "So, you're not a vegan or keeping kosher or anything, right?"

He smiles. "No. No food allergies, either. I was thinking of a diner I know."

"I lived on diner food for years." He pauses. "In a good, comfort food kind of way, I'm not sick of it."

"You know, I hardly know anything about you, Clint." He's surprised at how much it makes Clint squirm.

"There's not much to tell, really."

"Everyone has something to tell. Where you were born?"

"Waverly fuckin' Iowa, and I was desperate to get out from day one."

"How did you accomplish your goal?"

"The traditional way."

Phil ponders this for a moment. "So you ran away and joined the circus?"

" _Exactly_."


	5. Chapter 5

Clint still can't believe this is happening. That he's sitting here in a diner booth with Mr. fucking Coulson, sipping a Coke and telling him about his time as a runaway and then a carnie and then a goddamn petty criminal. He doesn't mean to mention this last part, it just comes tumbling out and he does his best not to cringe, because his childhood hero is going to at least be disappointed in him if he doesn't fire him on the fucking spot. But he just smiles sadly and stirs his iced tea. "I'm glad to see you back on the right track."

And from anyone else it would be patronizing and insulting and sanctimonious as hell, but from Mr. Coulson (and he's supposed to call him Phil, but how in the hell is he going to manage that?) it's just genuine, relieved and sweet. "Thanks." It's stupid, but that's about all Clint can say that won't be something about having wanted Phil since he was fourteen years old, or how one particular episode on abuse had made him realize that his older brother really didn't have his best interests at heart and still makes him cry whenever it gets rerun. He makes some stupid crack about the right track definitely involving a club sandwich, and Phil smiles in that devastating way he has. Maybe it's daddy issues, but calm, gentle older men have always made Clint a little weak in the knees. Of course, this one is his boss and probably doesn't go for rough-around-the-edges punks like Clint even if he is gay.

By the end of dinner, Phil has somehow gotten Clint to uncover his forearms and actually explain his various tats. He explains the detailed hawk and how long it had taken a kid named Angelo Cortez to do it with hands covered in Latin Kings designs. "He was in for longer than me, I was even younger than him and hadn't actually done much." He risks a glance up at Phil, and finds those eyes warm and sad.

"How'd a smart kid like you get into a mess like that?"

"Cause I wasn't that smart." He coughs, feeling like an idiot. "Dreamhouse actually helped me wise up."

Phil beams. "It did?" And he looks like his whole fucking life has been validated and it's a little more than Clint can take.

"Yeah." He swallows hard, and makes himself smile. "But I bet a lot of people can say that."

"I'd like to think so. Television is too passive for me to teach anyone to read, but I can hopefully impart things of value."

"You do. It's one of the main reasons I wanted to work with you." He grins. "Well, that and the show being such a trip."

Phil smiles, amused. "If you think about it, children are essentially tripping all the time until they're at least six or so. That's why there's such an overlap between children's fare and psychedelia." He steals one of Clint's neglected fries, eyes sparkling. Clint does his best not to blush like a goddamn kid.

"I guess so. A lot of the fairytale stuff does remind me of dreams I had when I was a kid."

"Me too. It's where I get some of my ideas."

"And the rest?"

"From the dreams I have now." He smiles softly. "I do leave out the nightmares, though."

"Of course." He studies that sweet face, and wonders what Mr. Coulson has nightmares about. He must have more than one would think, since he changes the subject deftly and quickly. And pays for both of them, waving away Clint's best efforts. It makes something twist in his chest, even as he reminds himself that it's because Phil is a nice guy and not too dumb to notice the difference in their incomes. It's apparent in everything from Phil's plain and yet somehow luxurious clothes to the purring power of the car's engine. Because it's Phil's, it's just a sleek black sedan, the kind of car secret agents are supposed to drive. They stop right by Clint's bike, and he thanks Phil for the transport and the food. Checking to make sure everything is in order he gets on, pulling on the single helmet which is one of the nicest things he owns. In his checkered history Clint has also done a little bare-knuckle boxing, and is thereby a great believer in head protection.


	6. Chapter 6

It's always the same season on set. Cool in summer, warm in winter, it has a way of concealing time like sleight of hand, a crucial portion of sober, adult reality palmed into nothingness like a coin. Phil is meditating on this and sipping bottled water in the shadow of the Republic's coral reef when a crash from the workshop makes everyone jump. It's not unusual in nature, but more than makes up for it in raw decibels.

"Holy shit!" Clint yelps, hands flying to cover his ears, smacking into a light and making it bob crazily. Phil is distantly grateful that today they're just filming with puppets as he hops to his feet and goes to investigate with everyone else. He can hear Tony swearing as he gets closer, so he's probably all right.

"Tony, what happened?" The crowd parts to let him get a good look at the devastation. The main castle backdrop for Fairytale Land, lovingly hand-painted and made of venerable hardwood and one of the biggest initial outlays in time and materials is a twisted, warped wreck of wood and canvas. Worse still, it has managed to smash Commissioner Whale into a grotesque parody of himself, wooden ribs poking out of his blue velour skin. Tony is standing there nervously fiddling with a wrench.

"Okay," he says, "Before we get started, I just want to go on record as saying that it was not in any way Bruce's fault."

"Thanks, lover," Bruce murmurs, sitting undisturbed and uninvolved on a prop crate, working on one of Officer Crab's legs with a pair of needle nose pliers.

"It is my own hubris that has caused out downfall here, and--"

Phil pinches the bridge of his nose good and hard, and takes three deep breaths. "Tony, what the hell did you _do_?"

"Well, first I saw the canvas needed tightening, and then it kinda over tightened and I was trying to correct for it when the frame started to go out of square and I thought a few nails would hold it and they did for a while, but then that spot where it gave out two years ago gave again. But like, way harder." The wrench drops to the concrete floor with a loud _ping_ , and Tony cringes. "Sorry."

Phil sighs. "It certainly wasn't getting any younger. I'm more worried about the puppet."

The Commissioner is a mess, and that only becomes more and more clear as they heave him free of the wreckage. He's bigger than Senator Octopus and almost as complex, and looks horribly like a real accident victim. His tail is wrenched to one side like a broken neck, and ribs have pierced even more spots than it had seemed like at first, standing up and out at crazy angles, and one of his eyes is hanging gruesomely down over his face in a tangle of wires. But of course the show must go on, so they set him aside and rip the lumber free from the canvas and pile both up for future reference and possible repurposing. People disperse, Tony has a drink for his nerves, and production rolls on.

Phil doesn't allow himself the luxury of getting maudlin until after they're done for the day. He spends so much time interacting with the wood, fabric and wire cast that he can't help but get a little invested. So when there's no one around to see him, he goes back to the shop and pets the torn velour before getting a stitch ripper and pulling apart some of the crucial seams so he can get in and untangle and disassemble the broken skeleton. It's natural for him to start to speak after a while.

"You're going to need a whole new rib here," he says, careful not to get splinters in his fingers as he hauls it out and sets it aside. "And here." He sighs, and presses his face to the velour for a moment. "I'm sorry, Commish. It'll be okay, I promise."

"Oh hell, break my heart, why don't you?"

"Clint!" He whips around to see Clint in the doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, which prompts its own inquiry. "...How did you sneak up on me with all those zippers?"

Clint chuckles. "Practice?" His smile fades. "I don't like seeing him like this, either."

Phil sighs, biting his lip. "Worst thing is that our only skilled carpenter went back to Portland, so it might be a while." He rubs a hand across his eyes. "Oh, listen to me. We hardly use him and it's not like he's actually in pain..."

"I get it," Clint says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "And I might be able to help you out."


	7. Chapter 7

Thor is sprawled on the couch, disconsolately eating peanut butter straight out of the jar and watching a game show on one of the Spanish channels when Clint gets home. He's just a giant Viking pancake, flattened with despair, his ancient stuffed goat cuddled in one arm. Clint winces, and Thor sniffles loudly, looking up at him.

"Loki called, huh?"

Thor nods miserably, and sits up. Clint sighs and takes the newly freed space on the couch and wraps his arms around his roommate. He's not usually into all this casual touching, but on Thor's planet other people are for hugs. Clint has described him more than once as 'the absolute snuggliest motherfucker I have ever met' and that goes quadruple every time his brother calls from prison. As far as Clint is concerned Loki is a stone-cold kill-crazy motherfucker, but Thor still loves his little brother, and feels like he's let him down. So Clint just rubs Thor's back and lets him talk some of it out until he's ready to switch over to cartoons and then to smoke a bowl and make fluffernutters.

"So I might've found you some more work," Clint tells him, and Thor perks right up. Bless his giant fucking heart, he is dedicated to his craft. Freelancing is by definition unreliable, and things have been slow lately. "But you've gotta _promise_ to be cool."

"I'll be cool," Thor mutters, rolling his eyes.

"We both know how you get, and I don't care what the provocation is, you are not making me look like a dickhead in front of Mr. goddamn Coulson. I want to help you out, don't fuck this up for me. 'Kay?"

"Why do you have to act as if I fly off the handle all the time?" He uses more peanut butter and marshmallow cream to glue two sandwiches together, taking a bite of the monstrosity that results.

"I just know that you do, man. I mean, you're getting better. I bailed you out that time because the fucker had it coming."

"Thanks again, by the way. You know how much I hate calling my dad."

"Yeah, I know. Point is, I can't cut you any slack when you're gonna be around my personal hero who may or may not be cruising me, see?"

Thor grins at him. "He did buy you dinner."

Clint blushes, and thumps his head on the table and crosses his arms over it as Thor laughs.

It's nerve-wracking waiting for a minute to bring it up with Phil the next day. Doesn't help that there's kids on set again and that a seven year old girl has decided that she's going to marry Clint when she grows up. Of course Steve thinks it's cute and Natasha thinks it's funny and the day seems about eight times longer than it really is. In a way it works out in his favor, though, because he hasn't got the mental energy left to be nervous when it's finally just him and Phil again. No one has asked why Clint tends to stay late, and he's very grateful to them for their restraint.

"Hey, Phil?" He pokes his head into the green room, where Phil is sitting there in his shirtsleeves, looking over scripts.

"Yes?" And Jesus, Clint probably won't survive his employment here. He can't help but return Phil's soft smile.

"Uh... We still need an actual carpenter, right?"

"More than ever, turns out a few parts of Olorun have gotten warped in storage."

"I gotta ask, did they give you shit for wanting to do orisha stories as part of Fairytale Land?"

Phil rolls his eyes. "So much. But you were saying?"

"Well, I'm renting a place with the best carpenter I've ever met, and he's currently out of work. He's pretty nuts, but I think he'd do a good job."

Phil chuckles. "You've seen the rest of the crew. As long as he'll show up on time and not actually kill anyone, we're probably fine."

"Well... He's one of those people whose names really fit. And his name is Thor." Clint sighs. "I had to bail him out of jail a couple months ago because another guy on the job was harassing some chick and Thor busted him pretty good. It was probably just dumb luck he did it with his bare hands and not Mjolnir. Seriously, his hammer is custom, and has a fucking name. So he's out of his goddamn mind, but wood does pretty much whatever he wants it to."

Phil laughs. "God help us, but it sounds like he'll fit right in."


	8. Chapter 8

It's a good thing that Phil isn't petty. If he was, he might've cut off his nose to spite his face and not hired Thor. This guy that Clint is renting a place with is a fucking god made flesh, and it's even more unfair than life usually is. Still, he knows his stuff, and seems honestly concerned about the Commissioner, touching the puppet like a caring doctor touches a patient.

"I can fix this," he says after a complete examination from all angles, and Phil pictures it carved in stone. There's something almost hyperreal about Thor, like he exists harder than other people.

"Wonderful." With an hourly rate already agreed on, Thor gets right to work. Phil watches for a while, rubbing his raw awareness on Thor's beauty. He could always be straight, but still. Clint lives with this. Sees it every day and probably at least half-naked at least biweekly. Just acres of rippling muscle and presumably flawless skin. Idly, Phil wonders if Thor has any tattoos, and then his mind makes an impromptu journey to The Fuck Zone, where Clint and Thor compare ink and share showers. Among other things. Phil swallows hard, and when he realizes that he has actually broken a light sweat, he flees to one of the janitorial closets.

All closet jokes aside (and Phil _had_ taken a rather circuitous journey out), he likes it here. It just smells like citrus, all the cleaning products as simple and organic as possible both in the interests of child safety and of sparing Phil and Steve headaches and respiratory distress, respectively. In addition, it's cool, quiet, and dim. It's just the sort of place to collect oneself, a safe little cave. Phil sits on an upturned bucket and wonders where he went wrong. He's managed to be so unperturbed for so long, and here he is contemplating beating off during working hours for the first time in years. It makes him want to thump his head against the door, but he knows better than to give away his position.

A knock on the door makes him jump. "Phil, let me in." Because it's Natasha, he does. She leans back against the door and smirks at him. "Having trouble concentrating?"

Phil coughs. "Maybe."

"You know, I think he does like older men."

"…What did I ever do to you? You feel it necessary to tell me about his piercings, and now this?"

"Just trying to help you out, Phil."

They're silent for a long moment, and then Phil sighs, because he is already damned. "Rings or bars?"

"Silver bars, apparently. Small, tasteful. Just your speed." Phil does his best not to whimper. Natasha studies him. "You need to get out more. This weekend. You, me. Midnight Mile. No begging off, this is turning into an obsession."

Phil groans quietly. "Fine, but everyone's going to wonder whose dad I am."

"Whose hot, corruptible dad, sure." She smiles, and ducks out again. Phil gives her some lead time and then cautiously creeps out, hoping that no one is watching and putting two and two together to make five. Thor has already made real progress on the Commissioner, and is having what seems to be a philosophical discussion on the differing natures of wood and metal with Tony. Bruce catches his surprise and grins at him, Bill's complicated eyes disassembled on his workbench. Phil edges around the discussion (which is still friendly but increasingly loud and gesture-y) and comes up beside Bruce to watch him work.

"—and it's just those limitations that make it so good for art."

"Yeah, but no limits is pretty much how I roll, so--"

"Girls, girls, you're both pretty!" Clint leans on the doorjamb, grinning from ear to ear. Thor laughs and Tony cackles.

"We were agreeing with each other loudly, Clint." Thor reties his hair, a few blonde locks loose around his face, and grins at Clint. "We know we're both pretty."

Watching the easy way Clint teases Thor, and how casually he touches him, leaning on Thor when everyone else is limited to a handshake or a thump on the shoulder, Phil supposes that he probably should go get drunk with Natasha this weekend. It'll be good for him.


	9. Chapter 9

Phil doesn't go out much, and when he does it's usually like this: hauled by Natasha for his own good to the Midnight Mile. There are other gay bars around, but the Mile is Natasha's favorite. It's dark and low and there's a backroom quiet enough to hold a conversation. It has Fetish Night once a month and fills up with all kinds the rest of the time. Closeted frat boys from two cities over, bitter old drag queens holding out from the days when the place was called the Silver Slipper and had a lot more class, effete intellectual types with their carefully knotted scarves, surly truckers and chain-smoking aspiring screenwriters.

There are also intermittent straight tourists, and Phil can feel casually contemptuous eyes on him. He tries not to shrink under it, wondering if maybe he should let Natasha dress him after all. She would have put him in something far too young for him, but at least it would have been recognizably gay. And then Natasha is dragging him to the bar and ordering two Redheaded Sluts, because she likes Jaeger and Maria is tending bar. Phil isn't quite sure just what the hell is going on between two of his favorite ladies. He can't tell if they've already fucked, want to, don't really want to but enjoy the game, or if it's unrequited lust and one of them is kidding on the square. Whatever it is, Maria grins at him as she hands his drink over. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey, Maria."

"You really need to get out more, Phil."

"Great, now I can get it in stereo," he grumbles, knocking back his drink. Like everything Maria makes, it's smooth and strong. Phil runs his tongue over his teeth. "Did you...?"

"You're welcome."

Natasha orders another round, and there's free Crown in this one as well. Phil sips his drink and leans on the bar, catching up with Maria. She's an old friend of his and Nick's, and little as either of them enjoyed their time in the military they're glad to have met. Phil has really forgotten how bearable the music is from here, the volume concentrated on the other room with its dance floor and cages. It takes four Sluts before he lets Natasha drag him over there, but he does at last. He doesn't dance so badly, once he gets past sobriety and its mean whispers of, 'who do you think you're fooling, Gramps?' The music is the usual mess, as varied as the clientele. Phil lets one of the truckers paw at him for the duration of some middle of the road hiphop he's never heard, and actually vogues with one of the old drag queens to a Madonna track.

Natasha has melted into the crowd, but that's all right with Phil. He can always collect her later, and he's certainly big enough to go fetch water all by himself. Maria gives him two enormous plastic cups with plenty of ice and lime wedges because Natasha likes them, and Phil makes his way back over, trying to catch sight of his friend's bright red hair. And then the song changes, the opening notes of 'Seven Nation Army' filling the air as someone heaves himself up and into the cage. Phil stares, first because the guy has an amazing body in nothing but leather pants and engineer boots, and then because he recognizes Clint. Clint is up there in the cage with dark kohl on his eyes, not so much dancing as fighting or fucking the music, flinging himself around and clutching at the bars. There's a wild hunger to his movements, and it almost seems like he'll shake the cage apart, tiny glints of silver at each nipple catching the light.

Phil feels flushed and heavy and can only hope that his mouth isn't hanging open, because his brain has rerouted everything to vision. He's vaguely aware that he has managed to not drop the cups, but it's the dimmest possible background to the details of Clint's tattoos. The wings of the hawk, the jagged edges of the broken heart and every other intricate piece of the designs on his forearms. There's one on his left shoulder blade that he naturally hadn't shown at the diner. The devil leers at Phil from that smooth skin as if he knows everything Phil hasn't been able to avoid thinking about Clint.

As the song ends, Natasha comes up beside him, smiling as he points out their coworker and she takes her cup. "How remarkable," she says, utterly deadpan, "I never would have expected him to be here."


	10. Chapter 10

Clint steps out of the cage several songs later, covered in sweat. Sam passes him a beer and a cup of water, because Sam is responsible and healthy. Clint just grins at him and pours the water over his head before chugging the beer. "Hey, you can't say you didn't try."

"Whatever, it's Thor dealing with your hungover ass, not me."

"You know I never-" He stops dead, staring across the room.

"Clint? What's up?"

"Omigodit'shim." And Clint would be embarrassed about sounding like a teenage girl if he wasn't so busy freaking out because _Phil is right over there_. Without even thinking about it he ducks behind Sam, glad that he's taller. "Fuckfuckfuck. Fuck. Oh my god. How long has he been here? Shit!"

"How should I know? Which one is he?"

"The one that looks like Mr. Coulson, dammit."

"You and your little old white men... Oh, he is kinda cute."

"Philistine. Does he look pissed?"

"He looks kinda gobsmacked, really."

"Oh Jesus." Clint almost gnaws on his nails, but stops himself before he can ruin the deep purple polish on them. "Remind me never to fall for my boss again, would you?"

"Hell no, this is way too funny. Hey, his friend is waving at us."

Clint risks a look up, and sees Natasha beaming at him. He makes eye contact, swallows, and takes his discarded shirt from Sam, pulling it on as he walks over. Phil looks alarmingly calm, and Clint is sure he's pissed or something.

"Uh, hey Nat."

She grins. "Fancy meeting you here."

They have some kind of inane conversation while Phil just stands there, and Clint wonders if he's going to scream. He tries not to squirm like a kid, and wishes to god he had something to do with his hands. "So, what are you drinking?" He answers, and the vicious bitch just takes off, leaving him alone in a crowd with Phil, whose body is better than Clint had realized, goddammit. It's just a black t-shirt and jeans, but they fit perfectly. Clint feels kind of ridiculous, and is glad he went with a band shirt with the sleeves torn off instead of the mesh Thor had tried to talk him into.

"So..."

"I like your shoulder devil." And Phil just smiles, that sweet, non-judgmental Mr. Coulson smile, and Clint's heart does some kind of near-lethal somersault. He has no choice but to smile back.

"Yeah, he gives me bad ideas."

"Oh really?" Phil raises an eyebrow, and Clint grins, feeling about as young as he was the first time he snuck into a gay bar.

"Second ink I got as a free man."

And Phil must be drunk, because he gives Clint a fucking hug. A good long one, tight and protective, and it makes Clint's throat tighten up. "I'm so glad you didn't get murdered in there."

He has to laugh at that, and if it's a little watery it's not like anyone can hear that over the music. "Me too, boss." And then Natasha is back, smirking and offering him another beer.

"Got one for your friend, too," she says, and Clint waves poor, deserted Sam on over. They move to the much quieter bar for introductions, settling at a table to Clint can tell them about meeting Sam in the joint.

"What were you in for?" Phil asks, mild and curious.

Sam laughs. "I wasn't. I counsel prisoners and Clint was a walking attitude problem."

"Ninety days in the hole," Clint can't help but add, "came out fresh as a fucking daisy." It's a point of personal pride, and if it had taken him a long time afterward to be able to close his eyes without breaking into a sweat and to stand still without bouncing on the balls of his feet like some kind of spaz, no one had to know.

Sam just shakes his head in disgust. "Anyway, I actually listened to him, and we kept in touch after he got out." He takes a swig of his beer. "When I'm not beating my head against the prison-industrial complex I rehabilitate raptors."

"So each one is good training for the others," Phil murmurs.

Sam laughs. "Hell, no. Raptors are way easier."


	11. Chapter 11

Phil doesn't generally resort to deception, and now is not precisely an exception to the rule. He is definitely drunk, and if he acts a little bit more so than is true, well, the devil made him do it. As usual, evil is rewarded and he ends the night in the back of a cab with Natasha on one side and Clint on the other. He's wrapped up in Clint's jacket, breathing the scent of him (and weed, no surprise there) from the lining. Better still, he's resting his head on Clint's shoulder, feeling the warm, hard aliveness of him.

"Either of the first two Hellraisers, any day of the week."

"The second is better."

"It is, but either of 'em is fine by me."

"Mm?" Phil has been drifting for a while.

"You awake, honey?" The endearment comes out so naturally it makes Phil's chest hurt.

"Yeah."

"Got a favorite horror flick?"

He yawns. "I like 'The Changeling.'"

"You would. Classy and highbrow and no gore at all."

"He also enjoys 'Killer Klownz from Outer Space,'" Natasha adds, grinning.

"Tashaaa," Phil whines, "you'll ruin my street cred and then I won't be cool anymore!"

Clint laughs. "You'll always be cool, Mr. Coulson." He hugs Phil and it takes all his self-control not to just climb into Clint's lap.

"That's what I tell him, but he never believes me. Aaand this is my stop. Take good care of my baby, Clint." She pays for Phil as well as herself, since she owes him from last time, and they wave to her as she leaves. Phil spends the trip to his place snuggled up against Clint, too drunk and tired not to. He's actually asleep when they stop again, and Clint pokes him awake. There's a hard rain drumming on the roof and Clint waves it off when Phil tries to return the jacket. He pulls it over his head, grateful for the protection on the walk up to the entrance of his building.

The next day he wakes up only mildly hungover, which is good. Stumbling to the kitchen for the white grapefruit juice and egg in a frame that is the only cure, he sees Clint's jacket slung over an armchair and stops. Blushes like a kid and scurries onward into the kitchen. He calls Natasha once the food is underway, and interrogates her about his conduct on the way home the previous night.

"You didn't get slobbery," she says, "you just cuddled him a lot and he was _delighted_ to allow it."

"...I still have his jacket."

"That's practically a papal mandate! Phil, I like that boy a lot, and you should stop tormenting him."

"You really think--"

"Yes!" She shrieks, and it goes through his head like a drill.

"Ow."

"Sorry, this situation is just very frustrating for those of us capable of basic observation. Recover, take that boy his coat, and ask him out."

"If I just say, 'yes ma'am' will you let me hang up and eat my breakfast in peace?"

"Of course." She hangs up and leaves him to his egg and his thoughts.

It's noon before Phil manages to get up and get dressed. Years and years of suits have made him one of those old men who potter around in slacks and a button down on their days off. He's tempted to wear the jacket over there, to get as much of Clint's scent onto himself as he can, but in the end good taste wins out. It sits in the passenger seat like a simulacrum of its owner as Phil makes his way to the cheap complex where Clint is renting. It's dilapidated, but in a friendly kind of way and the kids playing hacky sack in the courtyard seem more likely to sidle up and try and sell the unwary visitor weed than meth. The lawns are full of dandelions and to a thankfully far lesser extent, dog shit. He makes it to the door of Clint's building with his shoes unscathed, and heads up the narrow stairs to 3-B whose identifying letter is gone, nothing left but a ghost of lighter wood. Phil takes a deep, steadying breath, and knocks. He waits long enough to feel ridiculous before the door finally opens.

"Yeah?" Clint's eyes are still smudged and he hasn't shaved yet, all his tattoos exposed in nothing but a pair of blue Senator Octopus pajama bottoms. "...Oh." He straightens up when he sees who it is. "Hey."

As it tends to at important moments in his life, Phil's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he slides the jacket from his shoulder, dumbly thrusting it at Clint. "...Brought your jacket." It takes all of Phil's considerable willpower not to cringe at his own stupid words.

"Thanks." Clint rubs a hand over his stubble. "Uh, you wanna come in for a minute?"

Phil most certainly does, and not just to appease the voice of Natasha in his head, yelling at him not to be an idiot.


	12. Chapter 12

The lithe, faintly scarred lines of Clint's back are the best kind of torture, and Phil can barely tear his eyes away long enough to take in his surroundings.

"Place is a fuckin' mess, of course." Clint gestures expansively to take in the base-level bachelor squalor and Phil smiles.

"I've seen far worse." And he has. There are only a few cast-off clothes in random places instead of piles of them, it doesn't stink, and the kitchen is actually almost clean.

"You want some coffee?" He's making it on the stovetop, and for a moment Phil wonders if he's going to lose his mind at last, catching a reflected glimpse of blue flame in the ends of Clint's barbells.

"...Please."

"Cool. I'm just havin' leftovers for breakfast, but you're welcome to join me."

Phil does join him, watching as he slices cold meat and raw vegetables and simmers them in a skillet, making a simple sauce out of whatever comes to hand. The result is slightly curry-like served over what must be last night's rice, and delicious. Telling Clint so makes him look very young and very sweet, and Phil's heart turns over in his chest. Now should by all rights be the moment, but he's speechless again, and when he finally does manage to force himself to emit some sort of sound waves the words they form are, "Where did you learn to cook?"

He smiles sadly. "My older brother was totally fuckin' irresponsible, someone had to when we were on our own."

Phil nods, hands cradling his coffee cup. He doesn't say anything because there's nothing to say, but it's not a bad silence. Steam rises up to coil inside one of the sunbeams cutting across the kitchen, disturbed by only the smallest air currents. In the quiet, Phil's tongue regains its normal flexibility, and he's about to speak again and to greater purpose when Thor comes wandering in naked as the day he was born.

"Thor!" Clint wails in furious embarrassment, "Goddammit, pants!" Thor ignores him, favoring Phil with a lordly nod as he pads past them to the fridge, where he takes out the milk and chugs straight from the carton. "You filthy fucking bastard, use a glass!" Clint flings his fork at Thor, where it bounces right off all that perfect, milky skin, glowing golden in the sunlight. Thor might as well be a tree for all the attention he pays, and doesn't acknowledge either of them until about half a gallon is gone, whereupon he sets the carton down, wipes his mouth and turns to them, beaming.

"Good morning!"

"It's not morning anymore, you fucking lummox! Go put some pants on!"

"Clint, I fail to see how--"

"We had a deal! Pants, now!"

Thor rolls his eyes, tolerant of his friend's foibles and frailties, and retires to his room again, apparently to put on pants. Clint's ears are red, and he stares at his plate so angrily that Phil laughs. "You do know I don't mind, right?"

"That son of a bitch. I don't care about him rubbing his balls all over the couch, but dammit, I was raised to put on pants when my roommate has company."

Phil resists the urge to thump his head on the table to try and knock his high-definition full-color instant fantasies out of it. "It's all right. Don't let it upset your digestion."

Clint finally looks up, and laughs. "More excellent health advice from Mr. Coulson."

"I do my best." He's not prepared for the intensity that flickers in and out of Clint's eyes in a second.

"And your best can help a lot."

"...That's always good to hear," he says softly, and puts a hand over Clint's without thinking about it.

"You probably hear this a lot," Clint mutters, "but thanks for the abuse episode."

"I'm glad it could help."

"You had to fight to get it on the air, didn't you?"

"What do you think?"

Clint grins, and Thor comes wandering in again, still looking like a wet dream, but wearing jeans this time.


	13. Chapter 13

"I can't believe you let yourself get cockblocked by the roommate. Haven't I taught you better?"

"Oh pardon me, mistress of shadows. Some of us don't have your espionage skills." He pauses to take another listless bite of greasy fried rice, and Natasha snorts.

"You sicken me," she says, putting the lie to her words with another bite of sandwich.

They're taking a long lunch because it's clear that they're not getting out of here before midnight. The gremlins run riot today, apparently even affecting Mjolnir since Thor has cracked one of Olorun's ribs and is using his break to sulk, picking moodily at his plastic tub of leftovers. Bruce and Tony are having a shared lie-down on the cot to make sure neither of them has a stroke from trying to get a single fucking thing in the shop to work, and Steve is a stalwart bastion of patience, nibbling a hardboiled egg from his brown paper bag with one hand and carefully restitching one of Bill's seams that just won't stay repaired today with the other. Clint isn't having lunch or a break, locked up with energy drinks and the unusable footage from this morning. The cameras seem to be holding together, cross everyone's fingers, but for hours earlier they had been hiccuping and shorting out and sliding out of alignment, wasting time and effort and money. Phil checks his watch and glances up at the door to the AV booth.

"Go talk to that boy," Natasha is telling him when he looks back. "Honestly, I can't believe I have to tell you that."

"You know me, Natasha." He gets up and straightens his tie. "I'm a slow learner." Phil doesn't really know what he's going to say when he opens the door, but finds Clint hunched over the monitor cursing not it or his luck but himself, as if all this is somehow his fault. He's jittery and has clearly had more Red Bull than any one man should ingest, muttering to himself and jumping a mile at the click when Phil closes the door. "Clint?"

"Oh. Uh. Hiwhat'sup?"

"Your heartrate. Stop with the damn caffeine before you drop dead." And Clint just looks up at him as he comes over, so wide-eyed and weirdly young with the clunky audio editing headphones on only one ear, hanging crooked.

"Sorryabout that." He's quivering, and Phil gives in to the impulse to put a steadying hand on each shoulder.

"It's not your fault, Clint. Quit it and come eat something."

Clint grimaces. "I just keep thinking there's gotta be some part of it that we can use."

"It's okay."

"…Okay." He tilts his head, resting his cheek on the back of Phil's hand, and suddenly it's almost impossible to breathe. Phil realizes he should be stepping back, but he can't bring himself to disrupt that touch, and really wants nothing more than to be closer.

"Clint."

"Yeah?" Clint straightens up again, and his eyes are huge as Phil cups his face in his hands.

"Let me know if I shouldn't do this," Phil says, and kisses him. It's a light touch, and he's unprepared for the reaction he gets, Clint whimpering and going pliant, weak hands settling on Phil's hips. He chases the caress with his mouth when Phil pulls away, making a hungry little noise that sets his blood on fire. "Jesus, Clint," he whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"S-sorry," Clint whimpers, "I just…"

"Ssshh." Another kiss, this one on Clint's jaw. "It's okay." He nuzzles Clint's ear and it makes him shudder and suck in a deep breath.

"Oh god, come here," he whispers, and pulls Phil into his lap, holding him tightly and kissing him again.

Steve looks around for Phil to tell him that Bill's repair is finally holding, only to find Natasha blocking his way to the booth, arms crossed over her chest.

"I like you, Steve," she says, "I like you a lot, but if you fuck this up for Phil I will end you."


	14. Chapter 14

It's so fucking hard to let Phil go, but they have a job to do. Miraculously, there's no one lurking outside to ambush them, and they must somehow be keeping it together because no one even looks at them funny. The rest of the day's work goes by in a blur, and he keeps having to reframe and not focus on Phil so much. He lingers as everyone else leaves, feeling like he's on speed again. His whole body hums and if Phil doesn't take him home tonight he does not know what he'll do.

Phil finally comes out in street clothes just as Clint's trying to stop salivating and not pant audibly. He meets Clint's eyes and fucking _blushes_. Clint whimpers, gnawing on his lower lip. "Please take me home," he blurts out, and he could just kill himself. It had even come out plaintive and desperate, with a little crack at the end. Phil takes a deep breath, and shivers.

"Of course. God, why on earth would I say no?" And he sounds genuinely mystified, head cocked as he tries to figure Clint out. "So, you got a second helmet today?" And the thought of Phil riding bitch on his bike just about shorts Clint's brain out.

"N-no. And I'd fuckin' crash anyway." He can barely hold still, but he'll be damned if he bounces up and down like the speed freak he used to be or a kid who needs to pee. Miracle of miracles, Phil just takes his hand and gives it a friendly squeeze, leading him out. Clint gets into Phil's car and listens to something soothing with no words all the way to his place. He can't believe this is happening, but when he sneaks a look, Phil is actually fucking _blushing_ , eyes fixed on the road. Clint does his best not to jump out of his skin and just when he really can't take anymore, Phil parks the car. He's saying something about the brownstone as they go up the steps, but Clint can't hear over the sound of his own pulse in his ears, and his hard on is grinding against the seam of his jeans.

"Clint? Clint?"

"Uah?" Not his most intelligent response, but it's the best he can do.

"I was asking if we should even try to be civilized and have a drink."

"No, thank you. Sir." He covers his mouth, eyes wide, but Phil just watches him, mild as ever. "Oh god, please just touch me. That's all I want."

"And how could I possibly refuse?" He tows Clint over to an armchair and pushes him down. "Make yourself comfortable. I liked being on your lap today, and I've had thoughts about you and this chair."

"Oh." He can't do much more than whimper as Phil goes off to presumably get lube and condoms and that's a little much to take and he might be hyperventilating is this what hyperventilating feels like? The answer is 'probably', and he forces himself to breathe slower to make the lightheadedness go away, and pulls off his shirt, unzipping his pants and then paralyzed with doubt. He remains in that state until Phil comes back, blushing badly and carrying a discreet little white tube of medical grade lubricant and a strip of condoms that allows for fumbling and tearing a couple. 

"I want you to fuck me, Clint. Are you okay with that?"

He tries not to come at the thought. " _Yes_." He scrambles out of his clothes, and Phil watches him, eyes bright and avid.

"You're so beautiful, Clint. I just can't get over it." He takes off his own clothes and drapes them neatly over the back of another chair, and climbs to join Clint, kneeling astride his lap and kissing him so deep and slow.

Clint whimpers and melts because Phil is too fucking gentle to be real. He touches Clint like he's something precious and breakable, and it makes him want to fucking cry. Instead he just whimpers Phil's name and clings to him. Phil is murmuring softly about Clint being beautiful and perfect and other untrue things, and his hands are so goddamn careful with him, so warm and slow. They're the same way when he rolls the condom onto Clint, and then he's leaning forward, face buried in Clint's shoulder and the lube is right there and this is actually happening. He's surprised he doesn't fucking die when he works just one finger into that tight heat, because he's sitting here with _Mr. Coulson_ spread open across his lap and whimpering helplessly for deeper and more, sobbing Clint's name as he stretches him wider, slicking his cock with his other hand.

"Are you ready?" He almost doesn't recognize his own voice, dark and husky and maybe predatory even if he'd rather cut off a hand than hurt Phil.

" _Please_ ," he whispers, and shifts his hips to line them up better, groaning as Clint eases his way inside. He lets Phil set the pace, and it feels like the entire universe stops as Phil wiggles and sinks down.

Clint makes some sort of noise; he's not really sure what. It might even be an attempt at a word, but it's loud and heartfelt. Phil just takes every fraction of every inch of him, so hot and tight and mercilessly soft. He rocks his hips from side to side just to hear Clint's brain fizz as far as he can tell, and then starts to fuck himself on Clint, deep and rougher than Clint would dare on his own.

He can't do much but curse and moan and hang on, but Phil's hands are still all over him, and Clint whines when he leans forward and sucks one nipple into his mouth, playing with the bar and making Clint let out a whispered, "Please, Daddy," that he hopes they never have to talk about.

And then Phil guides one of Clint's hands to his cock, and whispers soft instructions right in his ear where it's really sensitive and he can't hold back anymore. He cries out when he comes, helpless and needy. He bucks and shakes for a long time, and Phil groans, riding it out and coming all over Clint's hand with a low groan. Panting, he melts against Clint's chest and covers it with soft kisses as they catch their breath.


	15. Chapter 15

If Clint had been ravenous for the sex, it's nothing on his appetite for cuddling afterward. He seems to think it's some kind of imposition on Phil, as if lying here with all this hard sleek warmth in his arms is a penance. It's a little exasperating, and Phil tightens his grip. "Hush. I like holding you." He's not expecting the little whimper he gets in response, or the way Clint burrows his face into his chest, clinging like a drowning man. Already disposed to be gentle with Clint, Phil just holds him close, rubbing his back and stroking his hair. He's not sure when he starts talking, but soon enough he's murmuring a litany of Clint's perfections into his ear, everything from his talents as a cameraman to the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. He wants to make up for every time Clint deserved to hear something like this and didn't, and only pauses to kiss his cheek until Clint finally begs him to stop, completely overwhelmed. His eyes are full of tears, and Phil cups his face in both hands and kisses them away, making Clint whimper again.

"Fuck, I'm sorry I’m such a mess," Clint whispers, and Phil just shakes his head and hugs him more tightly.

"I'm honored that you trust me with this, Clint. I have some idea how strong you've had to be."

At this Clint actually pulls away, sitting up and scrubbing at his eyes. "Okay, okay. Enough mushy stuff."

Phil smiles. "Enough mushy stuff. Should I feed you, having lured you here to drain your vital essence?"

"It's the least you can do, you insatiable vampire." He grins and Phil laughs, getting up and stretching.

"Hey, it's been a long time. The average age of my groupies is seven, after all."

"Mama always said I was exceptional. Still fuckin' up the curve, aw yeah."

Phil laughs again and sets about preparing Mostly Naked Late Dinner, one of his favorite meals. There is no question of Clint sleeping anywhere else after all this, and Phil nestles in against his back, wrapping an arm around him and sleeping better than he has in a long time.

He wakes up alone the next morning, but before he can feel too despondent he hears Clint in the kitchen singing 'Eight Days a Week' and rattling pans. Chuckling, Phil gets up and showers, glad to see by the wet tile that Clint has availed himself of the facilities. Between banana pancakes and mutual blowjobs to celebrate it being such a goddamn beautiful morning, they're nearly late to work. Nearly. It's refreshing to make the fast version of his commute with a passenger who doesn't cling to the overhead bar in white-knuckled terror. After all, Phil knows exactly what he's doing. Clint just whoops and looks for something he likes on the radio and spots a speed trap with those sharp eyes, earning him Phil's eternal gratitude. The kiss at the next light is completely unrelated.

They pull up to the studio at a sedate and law-abiding pace. Phil goes in first and Clint loiters for a moment so they can arrive five minutes apart. Natasha just smirks at Phil, Steve waving guilelessly before turning to kiss Bucky goodbye as he heads out to make the rest of his way to work.

"So…" Tony murmurs, sidling up to him.

"Not a word, Stark. Not one word."

Tony raises his eyebrows and his open hands, taking a step back. "'You sure do have a spring in your step today, Mr. Coulson' is like, twelve words, though."

Phil doesn't even dignify this with a response, sweeping past him to the green room, where he skims over today's script before checking on Thor's progress with the Commissioner. It becomes a normal day pretty quickly, punctuated with stolen kisses and a visit from Sam. Phil has been thinking of having him on to do some kind of conservation segment anyway, and takes the opportunity to talk it over. Sam is the good kind of visitor, who actually understands the meaning of 'quiet on the set' and stays out of the way. He and Steve seem to be instant best friends, and Clint grins at them in proprietary delight. Everything is completely convivial until Bucky shows up early. He almost always provides transport, since Steve has a way of getting into fights and catching diseases on public transit, and is a common presence in the studio. Today, however, he walks in on Steve with his skinny arms wrapped around Sam, laughing as he tries to show him how to get Bill to take one step forward.

Bucky is usually pretty relaxed, but today is clearly not a usual day, as he growls, "And who the hell is this?" He always seems larger than life when he's mad, and right now he's practically vibrating, fists clenched. Sam wisely steps away, murmuring that he's cool. It's a beautiful example of effective mammalian body language, as is the way Steve puts his hands on his hips and glares. Phil rolls his eyes because they've danced this dance before, and just gestures toward the exit. Steve nods and stomps out, Bucky at his heels. Phil jumps a little at the suddenness of Clint pressing against his side. The poor guy is trembling like a dog in a thunderstorm, and Phil blinks, surprised.

"Clint?" He puts an arm around him without thinking about it as everyone else gets back to work.

"He won't--?" Clint chokes a little, and can't finish, and Phil's eyes widen in sudden comprehension and he shakes his head, turning their contact into a brief but very real hug.

"He'd never hurt Steve. Do you think I'd have let them walk out of here together if he would?"

"…No," Clint murmurs, relaxing.

"You can go spy on them if you like. Bucky always gets the worst of it."

"They do this a lot?"

"Not too often, mercifully. They've just got this thing where Bucky forgets that Steve is a stringy little dork who's a terrible insurance risk and gay for puppets, and Steve forgets that he has the face of an angel and that Bucky gets insecure sometimes."


	16. Chapter 16

Clint does spy on them, because it makes him feel better. Creeping out to the parking lot, he can hear Steve's hectoring tones.

"—there's no call to embarrass me at work by acting like a goddamn caveman!"

"All right, all right! I said I was sorry, Jesus!"

Clint peeks around and is relieved to see that Bucky isn't vibrating with anger anymore. He's actually cringing a bit, pulling back as Steve steps into his space, still glaring up at him. "And besides that, it's like you don't trust me at all."

"Steve, baby. It's not that, I just…" He looks down helplessly at tiny little Steve, who looks ready to take on an army.

"Just what, then? What the hell is so wrong with being friendly if you trust me?"

"You could do better, is all." And that's something Clint has thought and felt for so long that he puts a hand to his mouth to make sure it's not moving.

Now Steve looks fucking _incensed_ , and Clint has a crazy moment of wondering if things really are as bad as he was afraid of and just the other way around. And then he remembers that this is Steve, who just reaches up and drags Bucky down by his collar to kiss him. It's maybe the single most demanding and possessive kiss Clint has ever seen, and he sneaks away again. By the time he's back inside, he's feeling like a fucking moron for being worried.

"Oh, don't sweat it, Bucky's just like that sometimes. Insecurity, I think." Tony is leaning on Bruce's workbench and explaining things to Sam, who still looks a little tense.

"Pot. Kettle." Bruce murmurs, neatly packing up his tools.

"You shut your lie-hole, Banner."

"They kissed and made up, Sam. You're not a home wrecker anymore."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You'll never understand the burden of being a dangerous thief of hearts, Clint." He says it completely straight, and makes even Bruce laugh.

On his way out, Thor offers to drive Clint's bike home for him or to disappear for the evening. He does so in an actual inside voice, again proving that he's capable of _some_ subtlety. Clint actually blushes, and slaps himself out of sheer irritation. "We haven't actually talked about that. I'll get back to you."

He's not even sure why he's so nervous, but he lurks around what's technically Phil's dressing room but really more like a closet with a mirror in it. Phil finally steps out in slacks and a turtleneck, and favors Clint with a smile that makes him weak in the knees. "Hey."

"Hey." Clint feels about fifteen years old and hopes it doesn't show too bad.

Phil just grins. "My place or yours?"

Thor has a guilty, covetous love affair with Hawkeye (Clint's bike has a name, shut up), and is perfectly happy to take the one helmet and ride home the long way after giving Clint a huge grin and a double thumbs up that makes him groan in mortification and Phil laugh.

"Good friends are hard to come by, Clint."

"Yeah, I know." He settles into the shotgun seat with a fond smile, and spends the drive to Phil's place wishing the car was an automatic and not a manual so they could hold hands for more of it. Phil laces their fingers together at the first red light without looking at him, and Clint blushes, feeling stupid and too happy to care. At least this time he keeps it together long enough for Phil to actually fix them drinks like a grownup. They even get halfway through them before Phil gets up to put on some of his ancient music and just looks too damn good from behind for Clint not to wrap around him and nibble his ear. Phil sighs and leans back into his arms, and Clint's heart does its best impression of a drumroll. To be here at all, especially after crying like a little bitch and being all weird last time is more than he could have hoped for. He can't help a little whimpering noise, nuzzling his face into Phil's shoulder and holding him tight, like he used to hold his teddy bear in the orphanage so that none of the other kids could take him. After a while Phil turns in his arms, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him like he never wants to do anything else for the rest of his life. Clint moans loudly enough for it to be embarrassing, and lets Phil lead him upstairs.


	17. Chapter 17

Their watery and tepid drinks are still there the next morning, and Phil clears them away so they can have a leisurely breakfast on this, their day off, and actually talk about this thing. Clint hates it, of course. He turns his chair around to lean on the back, shoulders hunched as he mutters his responses like a truculent kid in the principal's office. Phil probably shouldn't like that, but it's too late. Clint actually forces himself to talk about the whole crying thing, and Phil has mercy on him and doesn't bring up the fact that Clint is two for two on calling him 'daddy' during sex. They'll have to talk about that sometime, but now is not the hour. Now it's enough to know that yes, this is a thing. An old-fashioned exclusive thing, and that they're going to do their best to be professional through the euphoric haze. After that it's back to necking like a pair of teenagers.

There are a lot more conversations to have, of course. There's the awkward sad one where Phil edges around the brittle question of whether or not Clint was raped in prison and if there's anything he should or shouldn't do accordingly only to collapse in relief to hear all about Logan, who had taken Clint under his wing with no expectations at all.

"We fucked sometimes, of course," Clint says, holding Phil and rubbing his back, "but that was my idea. Feel better?"

"Yeah," he admits, feeling pathetic for being the one taking comfort here. Clint just smiles at him, like he's reading his mind.

"Hey, I knew I was fine, you actually had room to worry. Nah, Logan's fucking amazing. He actually escaped last year and they're still looking for him." He grins, and Phil has to laugh, hoping Clint never asks him to harbor the guy because he knows he'll cave in.

There's also the conversation about eventually meeting the Coulson clan, but Phil's family can be… judgmental. They're best saved for a fortified boyfriend, not a brand new one still quaking in his boots after being caught by Nick and threatened with all manner of horrors should he turn out to be a dickhead like some of Phil's past choices. To Clint's credit, he had stood up to Nick and only collapsed afterward. Phil had petted and soothed him, and then called Nick up to yell at him for a nicely therapeutic interval before taking Clint out for cheesesteaks to ground him.

"Don’t worry about Nick," he says, stealing one of Clint's fries. "He just doesn't trust my judgment."

"Really?"

"I've got some bad exes, but I think my taste has improved with age."

"Well. I told your buddy I don't cheat, I don't hit, and I don't lie, and you know that's the truth."

Phil smiles, kissing his cheek. "I know, baby." They're new yet, but he hopes Clint never stops blushing when Phil calls him that. So far, it's looking good.

Life goes on at the studio at its usual uneven pace, with Natasha quietly teasing them both and Tony telling them, in a nice way, every time he finds a particularly promising sex shop or offbeat date venue. Some of his suggestions are actually quite good, and the others are horrible enough to be bonding experiences and give them good stories for later. Clint joins Phil and Pepper on one of their occasional brunches and meets her tentative approval. She likes a little more polish, but is pleased to find him polite to wait staff and capable of telling good wine from bad. And out of his earshot, she acknowledges to Phil that his body is a work of art, eyes sparkling.

Meanwhile Thor is nearly done with his first task, many more lined up as he becomes part of their crew whether he likes it or not. He's down to the small components, huge hands making movements too small to see with fine grade sand paper. One of Olorun's ribs has always stuck slightly no matter what anyone does, but Thor just rocks a little and hums to himself and somehow makes something the exact right shape, hands glistening with baby oil as he strokes it into the wood. Tony actually says filthy things (which just make Thor laugh) while Phil merely thinks them. Clint just watches the action and grins.

"He's pretty straight," he tells Phil later. "Down for the odd shared hand job and willing to kiss a boy if he's going to fool around with him, but it's women he really likes."

"…If you have direct experience will you be angry if I ask to hear about it in graphic detail?"

"Are you kidding? I love story time."

Phil has to wonder how he got so lucky. He doesn't pick at it much; just superstitious enough to believe that well enough (and far better) is best left alone. Nick calls him up from some undisclosed location via satellite phone and tells him that he can tell Phil is getting laid just by watching the show, and to pass his commendation on to 'your boy', which is a little too close to home, perhaps. Still, Phil appreciates the sentiment, and lets Clint know that he's on that short list of People Nick Doesn't Hate. Clint is duly honored.

Sam does end up doing a bit on the raptor rescue where he works, and Steve gives him all the puppeteering lessons they damn well feel like, while Bucky peaceably nods in greeting and brings extra on days when Sam's presence and Steve forgetting his lunch coincide. 

"We need more scientists," Phil murmurs, lounging on the green room couch and chewing the stem of his reading glasses.

"I'm a scientist."

"Tony, I would love to have you do a few bits on mechanical engineering, but we'll have to script it very carefully and you'll have to keep it simple. And really, really _try_ not to say 'fuck' so much."

Tony laughs, looking as close to sheepish as he ever does for anyone but Pepper. "What about Bruce?"

"I was in a Christmas play once," Bruce murmurs, collecting some pretzels and dip from the table. "Forgot my lines _and_ wet my pants."

"C'mon, big guy. Water under the bridge, bygones doing their bygone thing."

"I still have stage fright. And telling kids about radiation just scares the hell out of them." He makes his way back to the corner that he and Tony claimed for their nefarious purposes long ago. "Isn't Jane going to be here for a while?"

"Three months, I think."

"Sounds like enough time for a spot or two about stars and the northern lights."

It's definitely enough time, and Jane is delighted to be on the show. "I was too busy actually studying to watch it in college, but my niece loves it," she tells Phil over the phone on the very night of her arrival when she must be exhausted, "and I love Senator Octopus."

No one has actually described her to Phil, so he's not expecting Dr. Jane Foster to be a knockout, but she is. Fine bones and one of those delicate little heart-shaped faces, and eyes that make Phil think of something shy and sweet that lives in some undisturbed forest somewhere. She seems fragile, but steps lightly and beams at the crew, taking a few pictures and getting Steve's autograph as both himself and Bill for her intern Darcy.

Later on Phil and Clint will agree that here is a real case of love at first sight, that they heard it ringing in the air like someone had struck a huge bell. Now they just watch from the safety of the catwalks as Thor drops everything to come and kiss her hand. Clint chuckles, duplicating the gesture and meeting Phil's eyes, his own alight.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Slightly Variant Initial Conditions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/654787) by [shiplizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard)




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